


The Broken Storm

by Morgenleoht



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon-Typical Violence, Fantastic Racism, Gen, Genocide, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mommy Issues, Regret, Religious Persecution, War Crimes, downer ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 01:00:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12876816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgenleoht/pseuds/Morgenleoht
Summary: "The only things Skyrim ever gave me were a mother who hated me, a bad case of alcoholism and a destiny I never wanted."— 	Sica, Legate Immunes of the Haafingar First Legion, Dragonborn





	The Broken Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, war crimes, religious persecution, alcohol abuse, and mentions of genocide and child abuse/neglect. Imperial!Callaina AU. Referencing armours from the Immersive Armours mod.

 

Putting down a rebellion was always brutal and the final quelling of the Stormcloaks promised to be more so than usual. Ulfric Stormcloak and his family were holed up in the Palace of the Kings while the rest of the population cowered behind and in the walls of Windhelm. Except for the Argonians and a few farmers. They’d been left to fend for themselves on the docks and eastern shore of the harbour. The lizard-folk were giving fish to the Legionnaires and the farmers’ properties were being held until the traitorous chaff was threshed from the loyalist wheat.

            Sica sat on a camp-stool by the fire, bottle of cheap wine in hand, as General Tullius, Legate Primus Rikke and Tribune Hadvar hashed out the last details of tomorrow’s assault on the gates. Her talent for tactics and strategy was limited to small numbers, so she let the professionals handle the battle-plan just as they respected her talent for sabotage and assassination. That was the good thing about the Imperial Nutcracker – he trusted in other people’s competence and avoided the micromanaging that so many other Colovian officers were fond of.

            “Don’t take the victory for granted,” Rikke warned as she moved a stone disk into place on the old map of Windhelm scrounged from the Castle Dour archives. “Sigdrifa Stormsword’s a nightmare when her back’s to the wall. Ulfric’s smart enough to give the defence over to her.”

            “It’s a shame the escape route from the Bloodworks is only one way,” Hadvar sighed. “Or I’d send a small squad, maybe with Sica in command, to take the city from within.”

            “If wishes were carriages, vagrants would ride,” Tullius growled in his West Weald brogue. “Sica will be otherwise engaged. Having the Dragonborn by my side during the battle will be a powerful statement.”

            _So much for anonymity,_ the prophesised saviour of the world mused silently. She took another drink.

            “Yes, if the statement you want to make is that the Empire turns kin against kin,” Rikke said quietly. “Sica’s better at breaking up knots of resistance, especially around Valunstrad and the Temple of Talos.”

            Tullius grunted sourly. He relied on Rikke for understanding Nord culture. “They’re traitors.”

            “Yes,” Rikke agreed. “But this is about hearts and minds, General. We’re already stamping out the last vestiges of organised Talos worship. Sending the Dragonborn to execute her mother and stepfather is… tactless.”

            “Legate?” Tullius turned from the map-table to look at Sica, who held the rank of Legate Immunes. She was excused from all menial duties, received double the pay of most Legates, and answered only to Tullius and Rikke. “Do you agree with Rikke’s opinion?”

            “She’s the local expert,” Sica responded, taking a swig of sweet wine. “I’m not attached to my family by any means, General, but I’d rather not be the one to kill them. Half of Skyrim already hates me. I don’t need the other half to despise me when I have to gallivant around killing dragons.”

            “Fine.” Tullius rubbed the back of his neck. “Will her presence at the execution be inflammatory, Rikke?”

            “No. The family of the executed are supposed to be there,” Rikke answered. “It’s a fine line, General, but we don’t dare cross it.”

            “So be it.” Tullius gestured Sica to the map-table. “You’ve been to Windhelm a few times. What’s the fastest route to the Palace of the Kings?”

            “Straight ahead past the Candlehearth Hall but Ulfric will use the rubble from his crumbling walls to block it,” Sica replied. “I’d say we’ll be led a merry dance through the marketplace, the graveyard and Valunstrad in that order. Tight, twisty and perfect for small squads to hold chokepoints.”

            Tullius nodded. “Don’t bother with your bow tomorrow,” he ordered. “It’s going to be hand-to-hand all the way.”

            She inclined her head in acknowledgement. “I’ve got a new dragonbone double-headed hatchet. I was planning to blood it on a dragon’s head but I guess it’ll taste Stormcloak flesh first.”

            Hadvar winced. He’d seen her fight with a hatchet before.

            “Good.” Tullius glanced pointedly at the bottle in her hand. “And stop drinking. We don’t need to deal with one of your hangovers.”

            Sica put the bottle on the map. “As you command, General. By your leave?”

            “Granted.” The General sighed. “May the gods preserve us. We’re going to need it tomorrow.”

…

The scout burst into the Great Hall where Ulfric, his huscarl and his wife awaited the inevitable. “They’ve broken through the Valunstrad barricades!” he yelled desperately.

            Ulfric Stormcloak slumped in the Throne of Ysgramor, nodding fatalistically. “So be it. I suppose Rikke leads the advance?”

            “No, my Jarl. It’s the Dragonborn.” The scout shuddered. “Her axe took off Ralof’s sword-arm on the backswing and she wasn’t even looking.”

            “To think Skyrim’s only hope sold her honour for a few septims,” Galmar said grimly. “Ulfric, what do we do?”

            “We fight,” Ulfric sighed. “And we die.”

            Sigdrifa’s face was stern. Ulfric honestly didn’t think the woman had any other expression. “Better Skyrim fall into the maw of the World-Eater than live under the yoke of the Empire,” she decreed harshly. “It will be a quicker death than the slow demise of mankind as Talos fades from existence.”

            “You’d destroy the world rather than lose?” Ulfric asked, aghast. He’d accepted his demise after the fall of Fort Amol. The world – and his sons – would live.

            The Stormsword didn’t answer. Galmar moved into position and the scout took a spot by the door.

            It was Rikke who opened the doors, her forceful shove knocking the scout off his feet. He hadn’t even managed to rise before the Legate Primus’ gladius split his head in two. She marched inexorably into the Great Hall, flanked by Tullius in his elaborate Imperial knight’s plate and the Dragonborn in earth-toned lamellar armour with a Bosmer feel to it.

            “Ulfric Stormcloak!” Tullius bellowed. “You stand guilty of treason, insurrection, the murder of Imperial citizens and regicide against High King Torygg!”

            “I stand guilty of fighting to free Skyrim from the clutches of a corrupt and dying Empire!” Ulfric retorted. “Tell me, Rikke, how does it feel to betray your oaths as a Shieldmaiden of Talos?”

            The Legate subtly flinched but her mouth tightened. “I made an oath to protect the Empire of Tiber Septim. I’m keeping that oath.”

            “Liar,” Sigdrifa said scornfully. “It’s the Empire of the Medes now.”

            “She’s got a point,” the Dragonborn noted in a low hoarse contralto. “But you three still made oaths to the Empire, whosoever ran it, and they’ve been broken rather thoroughly.”

            “I don’t recall asking for your opinion,” Sigdrifa retorted.

            “I don’t recall giving a fuck what you asked for.” The Dragonborn lowered the hood of her wolfskin mantle, showing a crop of messy black hair, face marred by wicked scars on her left cheek and eyes of gold-ringed turquoise. Kreathling-bred, her features more rounded than Sigdrifa’s, her skin olive-bronze and nose beaky as only a Colovian’s could be. “What matters is that the misery you’ve brought to the Empire ends here and now.”

            “You can advance now and face summary execution or surrender for a public one,” Tullius said, ebony-alloyed gladius dripping the blood of Ulfric’s countrymen, the ones he’d failed. “It’s all the same to me. I’ll be still sending your heads to Cyrodiil.”

            Galmar grinned ferally. “Then what are we-HRRK!”

            The Dragonborn’s double-headed hatchet embedded itself in his head, the mighty huscarl toppling over like a great tree felled to earth.

            “I’ll leave the other two to you,” the Dragonborn said crisply to Tullius. “I won’t have kin-blood on my hands if I can help it.”

            Sigdrifa howled with absolute rage and launched herself at the Dragonborn, who breathed the Word ‘Feim’ and became as insubstantial as a ghost. The Stormsword’s weapon passed through blue-white flesh without harming her and struck the wall. Tullius was on her in moments, gladius cleaving the back of her neck, as Ulfric rose from his throne.

            “So it falls to you and me, Rikke,” he said bleakly. “How could you turn against Skyrim?”

            “Skyrim doesn’t belong to you, Ulfric,” the Legate said sadly.

            “No. But I belong to her.” Ulfric looked sideways at the Dragonborn, who’d knelt and closed Sigdrifa’s eyes with a sigh. “And _you_ were supposed to save Skyrim, not destroy her!”

            “The only things Skyrim ever gave me were a mother who hated me, a bad case of alcoholism and a destiny I never wanted,” was her reply.

“Can we get on with it?” Tullius asked testily.

            Ulfric smiled. “Wouldn’t want to keep Shor waiting.”

            Rikke’s gladius was a blur, leaving blood and pain in its wake, and Ulfric fell to his knees. “You couldn’t even let me die on my feet,” he told the Legate bitterly.

            “Any last words before I send you to… wherever you people go when you die?” Tullius asked.

            “Sovngarde, sir,” Rikke said with a sigh.

            “Whatever.”

            “And this is the man who decides the fate of Skyrim.” Ulfric allowed himself a bitter laugh. “Let the Dragonborn finish me. It’ll make for a better song.”

            “I won’t give you the satisfaction,” the Dragonborn said, turning her back on him. “I hope you can run, Ulfric. The World-Eater’s hungry for the souls of heroes in Sovngarde.”

            “So why delay in defeating him?” Ulfric bit out.

            She ignored him, leaving the Great Hall.

            Ulfric screamed with all his Voice, flinging Rikke onto her back. Tullius retreated and unlimbered his Legion recurve bow. A steel arrow in the throat ended the Shout and the Jarl of Windhelm’s life.

…

The Dragonborn was well and truly soused by the time Rikke found her. Three empty bottles of mead lay at her feet and she was working on a tall jar of Dunmer flin. “Windhelm’s secure,” Sica slurred. “Fuck off and let me get drunk.”

            Rikke sat next to the younger woman. “I was hoping I could join you.”

            Sica’s laughter was harsh. In that inharmonious caw, Rikke heard the youthful voice of Sigdrifa Stormsword. “Won’t Tullius be disappointed in you?”

            “Fuck the General. We killed Talos today and I want to get drunk.”

            The flin was hot and acidic, tasting like bile to Rikke’s mead-attuned tongue. Sica appeared to relish it though. Maybe she had a masochistic streak in her.

            They shared the jar between them for a few minutes before Rikke was comfortably numb enough to talk. “I had to do it,” the Legate Primus admitted. “An Empire-ruled Skyrim was better than one ruled by Ulfric.”

            “You mean one ruled by Sigdrifa,” the Dragonborn corrected. “She had contracts on Ulfric and Galmar with the Dark Brotherhood. Found out when I killed the bastards.”

            Somehow Rikke wasn’t surprised. “Culhecain to Talos, eh?”

            “Suppose so.” Sica drank more flin. “The Empire made me a weapon but the Legion gave me a family. There’s more shared blood between me and you than between me and the Stormsword.”

            Rikke closed her eyes. “Do you think the Stormsword knew at the end?”

            “She knew who I was. She sent enough assassins after me.” She studied the jar moodily. “This wasn’t about revenge. This was about the people who died in the rebellion. I knew Torygg in the Imperial City. Good kid who didn’t give a fuck about me being Cyrod-born. Elisif’s got good instincts if Tullius lets her rule.”

            “He’ll have to,” Rikke said quietly.

            “That’s your job, not mine.” Sica drained the last of the flin. “Mine’s to kill the destructive aspect of Akatosh. Gods have mercy on us all.”

            She rose unsteadily to her feet and staggered out of the New Gnisis Cornerclub to the resounding cheers of the Dunmer. At least somebody appreciated the Legion today.

            Rikke buried her face in her hands and wept. Talos preserve them all.


End file.
